


your blows hurt me less than your words

by kaicares



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, M/M, Modern Era, Sparring, enjolras is a second degree black belt, karate au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28251459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaicares/pseuds/kaicares
Summary: Sparring at One Day More Dojo leads to the possibility of more. Maybe one day more.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Kudos: 7





	your blows hurt me less than your words

**Author's Note:**

> Characters belong to Victor Hugo.

Enjolras loved sparring. The feel of the mat beneath his feet, his heart pumping, the rush he got when he landed a hit. He loved everyone there, except one person. One infuriating person, who made it a habit to spar with him each time he went to the studio. His hits ALWAYS landed. He loved the bruises. He hated the person who gave them to him. 

Enjolras was a 2nd degree black belt, the youngest one there. He earned his junior black belt at 16, his black belt at 18, and his second degree at 19. Now he was 20, and had been training for 16 years. His mother always said he’d need to defend himself, since he was the way he was. Since he was a kid, he’d always spoken up for what he believed in. He’d always been the one to defend people in need. That’s why he’d started karate. To make sure that he’d have the tools to defend himself and others. Later, when he turned 16, he was already building muscle. Now, he was strong, and confident in himself, and only one thing could annoy him anymore. Grantaire. He took that back, a lot of things annoyed him. A lot. Grantaire was just one of them.

Today was open mat day at One Day More Dojo. Valjean, the head sensei, was supervising some of the blue belts.

Enjolras walked in, already dressed in his Gi. From across the room, he saw Grantaire, with his belt, black, denoting a first degree black belt. They locked eyes, and Grantaire smirked, then turned to talk to Eponine, another black belt. He scoffed, then bent down to open his bag. He grabbed his gloves, headgear, foot pads, and mouthguard, and put all except his mouthguard on. Straightening up, he turned and saw Combeferre and Courfeyrac, both fellow second degree black belts. 

“Hey guys,” he called.

They walked over. 

“Enj!” 

Courfeyrac enveloped Enjolras in a hug. Enjolras had never been a very tactile person, but Courf knew how to hug in a way that would make him feel comfortable. Not too tight, but enough to feel pressure. 

“Are you ready to spar?” Combeferre asked. 

Enjolras laughed. “You bet I am!”

At the sound of a man clearing his throat everybody turned to the front of the room. Valjean stood there, smiling.

“Now, he said, today is open mat day.” “For those who don’t know the rules, trade partners every 5 minutes, no face shots, and pair with someone who’s about the same height and belt level as you. And don't forget, he grinned. Have fun!”  
Combeferre raised his eyebrow at Enjolras, which was a question in and of itself. Enjolras simply nodded, and they moved away from other partners on the mat. 

“Are you warmed up?” Combeferre questioned. 

Enjolras tilted his head inquisitive. “Why wouldn't I be?”

Combeferre smiled. “Just wondering.”

He nodded. “Shall we spar?”

Somebody had turned on music, and it began to play, the bass pounding to the room. 

Moving in time to the music they started, light on their feet. 

They found a rhythm slowly, and they started sparring. Soon they were a flurry of punches and kicks 

Enjolras landed a kick to Combeferre’s stomach, and he staggered backwards. He moved forward as if to see if Combeferre was ok, but he just waved him off. 

“It's ok. Just sore from where Eponine kicked me last week.”

He nodded, and they traded a few more hits before they switched partners.

He sparred with Courf, Eponine, and Bahorel (to whom he won, but only by a little), before Valjean called for a water break. 

Turning and grabbing his red hydroflask, he took a drink of water. When Valjean called for the next round of sparring to begin, he found himself facing Grantaire. Internally he sighed. He was not ready to lose again to this man.

Enjolras was used to winning. He was student body president, he was high school valedictorian, his teachers loved him, he was popular. Sure, some people thought he was odd, but his parent’s money could make everyone at least pretend to like him. He hated that, so he became what they wanted him to be. They saw his mask, the one he put on daily to fit in among people, to not be known as the kid who had a special ed period to “help.” Grantaire stripped him of the mask, destroyed any and all of his perfectly crafted illusions, and truly saw him. He didn’t want that. He craved it at the same time.

He sparred with Grantaire without speaking, the only noise being their labored breaths. Sparring was the only time they didn't talk, and oh, how he both hated and loved it. As Grantaire landed hit after hit, he forgot. He forgot to hear, he forgot to see. He just felt. Felt the ache of the bruises on the side of his stomach, the way his arms trembled as he threw punch after punch, the way his thighs burned from staying light on his toes. 

Courfeyrac had noticed the dance they were doing, and it could be called a dance with the passion, the fire that had brought the two together. 

He alerted Combeferre, and they moved off the mat. 

“Are you seeing this?” Courfeyrac whispered.

Combeferre nodded.

“They need to get their shit together, and fast. Grantaire's black belt test is in 3 days, and Enjolras is going. You know he's going to work him harder than anyone, and their anger could burn down a house.”

“Or, Courfeyrac said, their passion.”

Throughout their sparring, everyone else had moved to the outskirts of the mat, and were watching them fight. 

Enjolras and Grantaire were both in their own little world, and then, suddenly, Enjolras saw. He saw the way Grantaire's eyebrows furrowed in concentration, the way his teeth worried at his bottom lip. He imagined kissing those lips, or better yet, having those lips wrapped around his-

A split second of distraction was all Grantaire needed to find an opening, and a hard blow to his abdomen sent Enjolras to his knees.

Grantaire looked down at Enjolras, and Enjolras looked up at him.

The corner of Enjolras’ lip turned up in some weary semblance of smile.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said, as if the word was unfamiliar in his mouth, for all he had called him in the past was Apollo.

Then, then Enjolras smiled a real smile, one that Grantaire couldn't believe was directed at him. 

“Grantaire,” he breathed, and instead of a curse, this time his name left his lips as a prayer.


End file.
